


The Fa

by vocativecomma



Category: The Little Mirmaid
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, disability themes, powerfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vocativecomma/pseuds/vocativecomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely inspired by The Little Mirmaid. A young woman seeks a cure for her sister from the Fa, a magical being who lives in the mountains. But the price she must pay is staggering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The ride to the Fa’s house is long and cold and silent. She does not like Armand, whose breath always smells vaguely of fish, and who never holds much stock in words. Once or twice, she tries to engage him in conversation, asking if he can identify the call of a bird up ahead, wondering out loud how much time has elapsed since they had left, offering him half of the sandwich that her mother had packed, but he only responds in grudging monosyllables. By mid-afternoon, the wind picks up, and she finds herself shivering under her worn coat. She is so chilled, in fact, that she does not have the luxury to indulge in her sadness, to contemplate what she might be about to give up. She tries reciting some of her favorite poems to herself, but the drone of the wind interferes with the rhymes, so they seem ghostly, alien. Sometimes, the wind sounds like Lindy’s laugh, before she fell ill. The laugh is more grating than pleasant; it is loud and intended to take up space, like Lindy herself. There are many nights that Ariel sleeps on the very edge of the bed they share, the corner of the blanket just barely covering her feet. “She’s a sick child,” Ariel’s mother would say. “We must all make sacrifices.” 

There was a moment, just a few seconds, when Ariel considered defying her mother’s plea and refusing to make the journey to the Fa’s hovel at the top of the hill. She had mouthed the words to herself: “But I am already broken. What more must I be forced to give up?” But then she imagines her mother’s face, as she often does, and she knows that if Lindy dies, her skin would become more and more translucent, she would stop eating, and then she would eventually disappear altogether.

Ariel is the only choice. Her mother has nothing to give to the Fa, and if one of the boys were to be chosen, the Fa would most likely ask him for his strength, and then a sorry lot they would all make: one teenage boy, with an invalid brother, a blind sister, a sick child, and a depressed mother to support.

The sun begins to set. She can tell, because the clip clop of the horse’s hooves loses some of its brightness. Her mother had not been generous with the provisions, and so Ariel eats an apple for dinner and saves the remaining sandwich for tomorrow. Hunger makes her lethargic. She falls into a sort of stupor, and she dreams that she is a little girl, telling stories by her grandfather’s hearth, but instead of crackling logs, there is only ice. 

“We’re here.” Armand’s bony fingers dig into the sensitive place right below her breasts when she does not immediately respond. It takes her awhile to realize that they have stopped. Armand helps her exit the wagon, none too gently.

 

“I’ll wait here,” he says. “I don’t want any of that witchcraft rubbing off on me.”

 

“You won’t walk me to the door?” she asks, more tremulously than she would have liked.

 

“I will not,” he says. “The door is thirty feet ahead of you.”

Ariel grips her stick so tightly that she can feel her fingers turning white. She tells her feet to take one step forward, then another. Eventually, her stick makes contact with something wooden that must be the steps. 

Finally, she finds the door, with its knocker in the shape of a snake. She knocks three times, with long pauses between the strokes, as she had been instructed. The door opens, and the heat of the house reaches towards her face.

 

“Who desires to enter the domain of the Fa?” The words are soft and resonant at the same time.

 

“It is I, Ariel of the Barren Woods.” 

“And why do you seek the services of the Fa, Ariel of the Barren Woods?”

 

“My sister is dying. We think her kidneys are shutting down. I seek a cure for her.”

“And what can you offer, in return for such a cure?” The Fa sounds as if she were reading from a script.

“Anything,” Ariel says her next line. “I can offer you my body, if you desire it. I am a virgin.” 

The Fa’s laugh is throaty, but not unkind. “And what, pray, would intimate that I would desire a body such as yours?”

“I have read that the Fa has a predilection for virginal maidens.”

“You have read it, and thus it must be so? You are a silly girl, Ariel of the Barren woods. You may come inside, but you probably won’t like what I have to say. 

“Whether I like it or not is irrelevant,” Ariel says, gingerly making her way through the front door. She finds herself in what must be the Fa’s Kitchen. The air smells of rosemary and basil. Green things. Growing things.

“So you are more pragmatic than I gave you credit for,” the Fa muses. “There’s a table and chairs a little bit to your left. No, just a little further. That’s it. Can I pour you some tea?”

 

Ariel is taken aback by the offer of tea, and more surprised at the nonchalance with which the Fa gives her directions, but then she realizes that the Fa must be used to interacting with the blind, the deaf, and the crippled. It goes along with her line of work, after all. 

 

“I’m fine, thanks,” Ariel says, a bit more tersely than she had intended, though her throat is dry, and a cup of tea probably would do wonders to soothe her raw nerves.

 

“If you’re worried that I have poisoned it, you needn’t be,” the Fa says. She pours herself her own cup and sits down across from Ariel.

 

“I’m not worried,” Ariel says. “I just don’t see the point in niceties, given what I’ve come here to do.”

 

“Yes. I can understand that. Tell me what has happened to your sister. How long has she been ill?”

 

“A little over a week. It started with some swelling in her legs. My mother tried to treat it with some herbs, but it didn’t go away. She also has difficulty urinating. She cries a lot.” The last sentence gets caught in Ariel’s throat, and she berates herself for revealing so much. Why couldn’t she have just stayed with symptoms?

 

The Fa is silent for a while, and Ariel imagines the thoughtful expression she must be wearing. Perhaps she is even steepling her hands under her chin. Ariel wonders about those hands. Are they gnarled and wasted, like the Fa in the legends, or are they manicured and delicate, like the Fa’s voice? 

“It does sound like the early stages of kidney failure,” the Fa says. “I think I can see her. Is she blond, with one blue eye and one green?”

 

So at least one aspect of the legends is true. The Fa does have some sort of second sight. “Yes. That’s my sister.”

“Ah. It is as I had feared. She is very thin and close to death. Unfortunately, in these types of cases, it takes a great deal of magic to intervene. About forty octanes’ worth, I would think. Magic of that concentration demands a high price, as I have said.”  
“I know,” Ariel says, with an edge of impatience. “Speak plainly. Tell me what I must give up.” 

The sky seems to match her mood. The wind has grown even louder, more frantic.  
The Fa of legends is known for treating those who come to her for healing with disdain, and she has been reputed to find ways to punish those who do not display the requisite humility. Ariel’s mother had warned her daughter not to look the Fa directly in the eye, even though Ariel’s eye muscles have always eluded her control. But the woman in front of Ariel does not seem offended by her lack of deference. “This is not your fault,” she says, “but it can’t be helped. Your timing is poor. I have only two wealthy clients who are seeking a trade that would be suitable for what you are asking. One of them is an older man whose arm has become paralyzed due to a disease. If I took your left arm, the sacrifice would be strong enough for me to produce the healing magic that would cure your sister.”

 

Ariel had always been told that the Fa lived a life of luxury, as each person who came to her was forced to make a sacrifice. “I don’t understand. You do not keep the sacrifices for yourself?” 

“Someone really ought to ban those books,” the Fa says wryly, as if reading her mind. “No, I do not keep the sacrifices for myself.” She gestures to indicate the modest size of the kitchen. “Does it look like I live in splendor? Does my table feel as if it belongs in a palace?” 

Reflexively, Ariel’s fingertips make a cursory examination of the tabletop. It is ordinary wood, much finer than the table in her mother’s kitchen, but far from opulent.

Ariel suddenly feels very young and very foolish. “It doesn’t,” she says. “”So, if you don’t keep the sacrifices, you give them to people who can pay you with money, and who do not wish to give something up?” 

“Yes. The magic isn’t as permanent if the sacrifice is given by someone who is unrelated to the sick or injured person, but it can last one or two years, sometimes more. And it can always be renewed.”

Ariel thinks of all the time she spends kneading bread, and sewing (though her stiches are always crooked), and carrying water from the well, following the trail with the rope that Daniel had made for her. She knows if she comes home with one arm, she will be less than useless.

 

“All right. You said that was the first option. What was the second?”

 

The Fa sighs. “It isn’t any more pleasant than the first, I’m afraid. Another client’s daughter recently went mute. He is looking for the voice of a young girl.” 

“That’s it?” Ariel says. “Those are my only two options? My arm or my voice?”

 

“Those are the only two options I can give you. They are steep prices, to be sure. I am certain that if you refused them, your family would not fault you.”

But they would. Her mother, especially. Lindy had always been her favorite. Even on days when she barely got out of bed for enough time to do the small bit of mending given to her by Mrs. Olivier, the baker’s wife, she still manages to find time to brush Lindy’s golden curls by firelight. “My little Lindy-Loo,” her mother would say. No one in Ariel’s family ever called her Ari, though she had been referring to herself that way ever since she could talk.

 

“So I should just let my sister die?” 

 

The Fa stands. Ariel hears the sound of more tea pouring. “That is not for me to determine. I can only lay out the options available to you. You were aware, were you not, that if you chose to come to me, I might ask for a sacrifice you would be unwilling to give?”

 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Ariel says. She snaps her mouth closed before she can tell the Fa about her mother’s veiled threats. If she had not consented, perhaps Armand would have bound and gagged her, or maybe he would have tricked her into going with him on an errand, and then left her on the heath to die. Armand is not particularly intelligent, but he is tractable, and had become even more compliant after her mother had taken him as a lover. Their cottage has only two rooms, and they do little to muffle the discordant notes of their lovemaking. Her mother is always more snappish and quick to anger on the mornings after Armand has paid a visit. But on those mornings, there are also extra slices of bread, a couple more potatoes in the pantry, and once, three sausages. SO no one complains. 

I will never complain again, or make a nuisance of myself when I have nightmares, Ariel thinks, or if I do, no one will hear it. Mother will definitely be pleased. Perhaps she was predicting this would happen all along. 

 

“When you said you had no choice, what did you mean?” the Fa asks. “Is it possible that you were cursed?”

“I wouldn’t put it past my mother,” Ariel says under her breath, so softly that there is no chance the Fa will overhear. To the Fa she says, “I wasn’t cursed. And even if I were, I don’t see how it matters. It doesn’t change the facts. My sister will die unless I pay the price, and I can’t let that happen. The man who took me here is not the most patient person you’ll ever meet, so we must do this as quickly as possible.”

 

“So you are certain of your course of action? After I perform the spell, you will not be able to speak at all, not even in a whisper. In the beginning, you might even have trouble forming words in your own mind, but I think, in one as verbal and determined as you, that ability will come back with time.” 

 

Ariel looks for mockery in the Fa’s words, but finds none, only a neutral recitation. But there is something else, a lingering warmth that brushes at the corners of the Fa’s lips that Ariel isn’t sure she likes. Clinically, Ariel tells herself that she is in shock, that it is easier to focus on the Fa’s cultured voice, her perfectly articulated syllables, than it is on her own fear of voicelessness. “Why are you telling me all these things? Why do you care? Are you like this with all your clients?” Her questions come out a bit derisively, and again, Ariel waits for the Fa’s rebuke. She hasn’t even been addressing the Fa properly. Should she call her milady? Ma’am? There is something so grand about her, despite their modest surroundings. 

 

“I am telling you so that you will be prepared for what is to come.  
And perhaps, I am exercising more caution than usual. You have already suffered the loss of your eyesight, and this will be yet another loss. Though as you say, it must be done.”

Ariel sees losses layered on top of losses, a wedding cake for grotesque creatures. “I was born blind, actually.”

 

“Is that so? Sometimes, it appears as if you are looking right at me.”  
So her mother’s warning had definitely been in vain. “It must be a trick of the light,” Ariel says. She has trouble getting the words out, and she wonders whether the Fa has already begun her work. Her brother, Daniel, had once told her that her gaze was more piercing than that of anyone he knows. She remembers the day when a neighbor’s daughter visited from another town, and she inexplicably knew that the girl’s hair was the same color as fresh straw. The kitchen suddenly feels too small.  
“It’s all right to be afraid, you know,” the Fa says, and she, too is speaking quietly now.  
“There are many implications of this decision. How you are going to communicate, for instance. Would you like to prepare something, a document perhaps, that you can show to your family and explain why you are now mute? I can write it for you, if you can’t write it yourself.”

 

Ariel cannot even conceive of an answer to the Fa’s question. Her pity is an obstacle she does not anticipate. She can picture Daniel spending a few stray evenings with her, on the nights when he isn’t too tired from the endless toil their ungrateful little farm demands, cobbling together some crude signs. Food. Water. Help. Her vocabulary will be reduced to three words. 

 

“I’m sure they’ll figure out what happened pretty fast, “Ariel says. 

 

“Even so, I can give you a few moments to reflect, to be alone with your voice. I doubt that any comfort I can offer will ring with much authenticity.” 

 

“Let’s just get this over with,” Ariel says.” She knows if she starts crying, it would be terrible.

 

Someone is knocking on the door. Tentatively, but not timidly, as if whoever it is wants to touch the wood as little as possible. “Let me see who it is,” the Fa says. “I will tell them that I am occupied. “ 

 

The Fa opens the front door a crack. “Who’s there?” 

 

The visitor turns out to be Armand. The Fa tells him that Ariel isn’t ready yet, that they will need at least a half hour, and Ariel shudders. Whatever process the Fa has in store will not be a rapid one.

 

“It’s the horse,” Armand mumbles. “Her shoe is busted up. I found a blacksmith in town. The new shoe won’t be ready till tomorrow afternoon.” 

 

“That is unfortunate,” the Fa says. “Ariel can stay here with me, and there is a tavern in town, the Golden Rook. They’ll give you a bed, in exchange for some chores. I don’t see why Ariel couldn’t stay there as well, if she’d rather.” 

 

“She can fend for herself,” Armand says. “I’m the driver, not the babysitter.”

 

Armand leaves, after telling Ariel and the Fa that he will be back to collect her once the horse is ready.

 

“What a lovely man,” the Fa says sarcastically, shutting the door with more force than necessary. “But his news does change things a little. Do you still wish for me to take your voice now? You have at least a day to wait. There is no reason for me to go through with this tonight, though I can see that you are anxious to get it behind you. And maybe you’d like to see what it feels like, if it is manageable for you. The spell can always be undone, though this will of course negate the power of the healing potion I will be giving you to take to your sister.” 

One summer, Ariel’s mother wouldn’t speak to her for three days, after she mistook one of Lottie’s dresses for her own, and ruined it. Selfish, selfish. You’re always so selfish. “No, I want to do it tonight,” Ariel says decisively. “And don’t let me stop it. Whatever happens, whatever I say…” She stops herself. The end of the sentence dangles jaggedly, like an ugly piece of jewelry. “Just don’t undo it.” 

“As you wish,” the Fa says, as if Ariel’s words are something precious, and not the drab and desperate pleading of a farmer’s daughter. “I will explain to you what will happen during each stage of the casting, for my own comfort, if not for yours, and then we will proceed. The procedure will last for the better part of an hour. For the first half of that time, you should still be able to speak quite easily. If you have questions, you should not hesitate to ask them.” Again, the scripted quality has returned to the Fa’s speech. “Actually, before we begin, there is one question I must ask you. Do you consent to be touched? The spellwork can be done more swiftly when there is physical contact, but it is not strictly necessary, if the prospect of my touch is abhorrent to you.” 

Old man Schorr had once regaled Ariel and her brothers with the story of a young girl who had come to the Fa to abort a fetus. After the girl had failed to compensate her adequately for her services, The Fa had apparently burnt a hole in the girl’s stomach with her touch alone. But the Fa of the stories feels insubstantial, and very far away. “I consent,” Ariel says. Dimly, she is aware that her curiosity about the texture of the Phi’s hands is about to be satisfied.

“Good. I’m going to place my fingertips at your throat. I’ll start to recite the incantation, and as I do, you will begin to feel a tugging sensation, as my magic makes contact with your larynx. Is everything clear so far?”

Ariel nods. Then she hears the scrape of the Fa’s chair. The air in the room shifts slightly, and she knows the Fa is standing right in front of her. She places six of her fingertips on or near Ariel’s larynx. Her hands are the same temperature as Ariel’s neck, and the pads of her fingers are smooth. They smell like jasmine and lavender, tinged with a smoky aroma that she cannot identify. 

The language of the Fa’s incantation is also unfamiliar. Each syllable sounds like a pebble being dropped into a stream, and there is the barest wisp of a melody. Ariel is so caught up in the half-chant, half-song that when the tugging starts, she lets out a small “oh” of surprise. When she was eight or nine, her grandfather had shown her how two magnets repel and attract one another, and this is exactly what the tugging feels like: as if her voice box is merely a magnet being drawn towards another, more powerful one. The sensation is strange, and not unpleasantly so. Until the pain begins. It starts as a tiny throbbing dot just below her chin, then gradually expands to form a ring that encircles her larynx. It is neither a cold nor a hot pain, and it seems to be both on the surface and deep inside her throat. It comes in waves, like cramps. After one particularly vicious one, the speed of Ariel’s breathing increases. The air in the room is too thick, and there isn’t quite enough of it. The Fa breaks off mid-note, but keeps her hands where they are. The pain drains away, as if it had never been there. 

“I’m hurting you,” the Fa says. “Which is disconcerting, because none of what I am doing is meant to cause the donor discomfort. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to get rid of it completely, but I can do the spellwork even more gently, and we will see if that makes a difference.” 

Ariel has to gulp three or four lungful’s of oxygen before she can respond. “I’ve experienced worse. You don’t have to coddle me. I’m not afraid of a little pain.” Her father had taken care of that particular fear before he died. “And my discomfort should not be your concern.”

“On the contrary.” The Fa’s tone is stern. “Introducing magic of this potency into the body can be dangerous if it is not done correctly, or if the donor reacts badly to it. You have agreed to allow me to cast this spell on you, and so your discomfort is very much my concern. You will inform me if you are having difficulty breathing, your heart rate drastically increases, or the pain becomes intolerable. If you can speak, you will alert me verbally. If you cannot, you will raise your left hand. Is that understood?”

“Yes, milady,” Ariel says, and she knows that the honorific is right.  
The Fa resumes her recitation, and this time, there isn’t even a tug, more like the brush of several gossamer cords. Once or twice, Ariel even stifles a laugh. It is almost as if someone is tickling her neck with a feather. 

 

Abruptly, the Fa’s tune changes its tempo. She is fully singing, now, and Ariel is reminded of the ballads her grandfather used to favor. They were always about losing a lover to the sea, or a war, or some inane family feud. After her grandfather died, Ariel had tried writing her own versions for a while, but to her ears, they always sounded paltry and melodramatic. 

The pain comes back for a brief second, and the Fa seems to be aware of this, for she starts kneading little circles on Ariel’s neck. The pain does not return, and Ariel allows her racing thoughts about her grandfather, and the ballads she will never sing, and all the new words she will never say, to fade into the background of the Fa’s lament

 

She must have fallen asleep, for she awakens to the Fa calling her name.

“What’s happened?” Ariel asks groggily.

“Nothing. I heard your stomach grumbling, so I thought I’d ask if you were hungry. This part of the spell-casting is taking longer than expected, and I was at a good stopping place.”

 

“Longer than expected? Why? You can use more force, you know. I won’t break.”

“I don’t doubt that,” the Fa says, “but unfortunately, I’m afraid it wouldn’t make any difference. My magic is having a hard time establishing a connection with your throat chakra.”

“Chakra?” Ariel rolls the foreign name around in her mouth.

“Yes. The chakras are the spinning energy centers that can be found throughout the body. There are seven of them, of which the throat chakra is the fifth.” 

“And my throat chakra isn’t connecting with your magic?”

“It isn’t at the moment, but I still haven’t investigated all the possibilities. In the meantime, I suggest that you eat something, as the body needs to replenish itself after any sort of magical surge.”

Ariel is overwhelmed, perhaps because she is still muzzy from sleep, perhaps because she is discovering that the Fa is incredibly skilled at intertwining orders with suggestions.

“This is not a command,” the Fa says. “You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to.” 

 

So the Fa is a mind-reader. Ariel curls in on herself as much as she can. The kitchen chair is stiff and unyielding. The thought of food makes her feel nauseous, but she is too tired to face the Fa’s disapproval. “ I guess I could eat something small, if you can spare it,” she says. She is not accustomed to a stranger being so free with an offer of food. To the residents of the Barren woods, hunger is always a threat. 

 

“All right. Would some bread and cheese and fruit be amenable?”

Ariel nods, and the Fa goes about preparing the small meal. When Ariel tries to stand, because the idea of the Fa waiting on her makes her anxious, the Fa tells her to stay seated; she must conserve her strength. 

The bread is soft and airy, not like the dry, almost inedible stuff her mother makes, and the cheese has a vaguely nutty flavor. The fruit is crisp and juicy, even sweeter than Mr. Robertson’s apples in the autumn. The Fa must be enjoying some as well; Ariel can hear the sound of it crunching. She starts to contemplate whether the Fa needs food to survive, like a human does, or whether she eats for the pleasure of it. Then she bites down on her lip, hard, and tries to hide her speculations behind a brick wall at the edge of her mind. She has no wish to be chastised for what is only idle curiosity. The silence is beginning to grow oppressive, so Ariel searches for a distraction. “What is this fruit we’re eating?” she asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.”  
“

It’s a type of pear,” the Fa says. “It isn’t native to these parts, but I’m rather fond of them, and my magic does have its other uses. I can show you the greenhouse tomorrow, if you would like.”

 

“I’m sure Armand will be here to collect me early tomorrow morning,” Ariel says. Tomorrow, she will be stripped of the only defense she has ever had at her disposal, and she does not want to spend more time with the Fa than necessary. 

 

“I’m sure he will,” the Fa says. “It’s getting late. If you’d prefer, we can move to the front room, or the bedroom where you will be sleeping. You would at least be able to lie down.” 

Ariel tells the Fa that she is fine where she is. The chair is uncomfortable, but it is a simple familiar discomfort, and Ariel is grateful for the anchor that it provides. 

The Fa does not press her. Instead, she returns to her position in front of Ariel, but this time, she places her fingertips on her forehead, right between her eyes. “Don’t be alarmed if you feel a tingling or a buzzing in other parts of your body, “ she says. “I’m going to be working with some of your other chakras to try to get around whatever is preventing my magic from making contact.”

The pain is instantaneous this time. Ariel recoils, as if she has been slapped, and the chair would have tipped over, if the Fa hadn’t been there to steady it.

“My apologies,” the Fa says. That approach is obviously not going to work.”  
The pain is gone, but Ariel is left with a bitter taste in her mouth. The Fa’s constant solicitousness is becoming unbearably irritating, for it cannot possibly be genuine. Ariel might be at the Fa’s mercy, but that does not mean that she should be forced to participate in this farcical tale of kindness that the Fa has spun around them. 

“Why not?” Ariel snaps, before she can think better of it. “You’re probably enjoying yourself. Feeding off other people’s pain. Wasn’t that what you were made to do? I’m sure you can’t wait for me to start screaming.”

“Listen to me, Ariel,” the Fa says. “I don’t blame you for thinking about me in this manner. You have clearly been misled, as have been a great many others. But know this: I am a lot of things, but a sadist is not one of them. I do not enjoy watching you suffer.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ariel says savagely. The Fa’s sincerity is proving to be a formidable foe in its own right.

“You don’t have to,” the Fa says. “I couldn’t expect that from you. Or from anyone. Trust is a sacred thing. But I am telling you where I stand, all the same.” 

Against her will, Ariel visualizes the Fa’s face. Her eyes must be gray, she thinks. Gray with bits of blue in them, which you can only see if she is radiantly happy. Which she hasn’t been, not for a very long time. Ariel’s sharp rejoinder shrivels on her tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Moluren, for all our conversations about Ariel's "aaa aaaa song," and for shamelessly indulging my Ursula obsession.

Against her will, Ariel visualizes the Fa’s face. Her eyes must be gray, she thinks. Gray with bits of blue in them, which you can only see if she is radiantly happy. Which she hasn’t been, not for a very long time. Ariel’s sharp rejoinder shrivels on her tongue. “All right,” she says, eventually. Those two words probably don’t contain any of what the Fa is looking for, but Ariel can’t manage more than that. 

“I’m going to touch your chest now,” the Fa says, as if nothing has happened. “This is going to feel a bit different, but hopefully not painful.”

The Fa is correct. The sensation is nothing Ariel has imagined. The minute the Fa’s fingertips make contact with her sternum, there is a rushing sensation, as if someone is trying to lift her off her feet but isn’t quite succeeding. She feels as if she should be able to jump into the air at any minute, but at the same time, something heavy and warm and wonderful is anchoring her to the Earth. 

“What is this?” she asks in a child’s voice. “What do I do?” 

The Fa takes a moment to answer, and when she does, she sounds a bit distant, as if Ariel has interfered slightly with her concentration. “I’m touching your heart chakra. I’m opening it up. Just try to lean into the feeling.”

For what seems like hours, Ariel hangs, suspended, happy moments buffeting her like a July breeze. She is five years old again. Her father is having one of his good days, and they are rolling down a hillside together, just for the fun of it. She must be three or four, and someone, maybe her mother, but that couldn’t be, has given her a crown of wildflowers. They make her sneeze, which for some reason she finds uproariously funny, and the sneezes and the giggles tickle each other, which makes her laugh harder. The memories crowd out the present, and so she is hardly aware of the Fa’s hands, the dig of the hard kitchen chair, the occasional crackle of a log in the fireplace. The pictures flow and bend into one another. She is both a spectator and a participant, and she never wants the show to end. 

“Ariel. Ariel. Come back.” Something cool is being placed into her left hand, and for the life of her, she doesn’t know what it is. But she doesn’t care, because it is making the pictures melt away.

“Open your eyes,” the Fa says, and the command is so ludicrous that Ariel is jolted back to the kitchen and the Fa and her terror. She realizes that the cool object was a glass of water, and mindlessly, she brings it to her lips and drains it.

“It’s done,” the Fa says. “My magic has wrapped itself fully around your voice. We can move onto the final stage now. Any questions, before we continue?”

Ariel wages a losing battle with her curiosity, which, for some reason, is stronger than her anger. “Why did you do it? Why make me relive all those things, and then take them away?”  
“I was worried you might feel that way,” the Fa says. She sounds tired, and a little resigned. “I told you that using the heart wasn’t my preferred method. Opening the heart chakra often causes people to relive happy memories. I needed you relaxed.”

“You wanted to numb me. It’s like in that story, about the spider and the pig.”

In third grade, Mrs. Fin had read an old storybook aloud to the class. No one knew where she had gotten it, because most of the books from the Good Times had been burned or destroyed. Ariel only vaguely remembers the plot, but for some reason, she had never been able to forget the scene in which the spider had explained how she had used her venom to anaesthetize flies before eating them. 

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” the Fa replies. “The body is most receptive to magic when it is relaxed. Usually, my song is enough, but yours is proving to be a very difficult and unique case. This last part shouldn’t take much longer.”

 

It must be one or two in the morning by now. How many nights has the Fa spent like this, bent over her patient? Victim? working by candlelight. 

“I’m sorry,” Ariel murmurs, half-sarcastic, half-apologetic. “For all the trouble.”

“Don’t apologize for something that you cannot control,” the Fa says.” For this final step of the procedure, I’m going to place a special jar at your neck. On the count of three, I’m going to ask you to sing. You’ll be able to hold the note at first, but your voice will slowly fade until it is fully disengaged from your body, and the jar will capture it.”

 

“Sing?” Ariel asks stupidly. The Fa might as well have requested that she fly to the moon. 

“It doesn’t need to be an actual song. Holding a single note will suffice.” 

“Can’t you just go in and take what you need?”

 

There’s a headache gathering at Ariel’s temples, but she has the uncanny idea that the pain is not entirely her own. The Fa massages the bridge of her nose. She must be human enough that she still requires sleep. “You ask so many questions,” she chides, almost fondly. “I am only following the instructions that have been past down to me, but I think the singing eases the voice’s exit from the body. When you sing, imagine that your voice is water, flowing down a rock into a jar. The less you fight me, the less painful this should be for you.” 

“That’s hardly reassuring,” Ariel mutters. 

“I’m going to begin now,” the Fa says. 

 

The jar is small, probably no bigger than a jam jar, but the glass feels unnaturally cold against her heck. The Fa counts slowly to three, but when Ariel tries to sing, or even hum, nothing comes out.

“I can’t do it,” she says weakly.

 

You can and you will,” the Fa counters. She is decisive, but not impatient. “Here, join me.”  
And the Fa begins to sing a single pure note that seems much too high for her range, but is not. Somewhat hypnotized, Ariel finds herself joining her, and she is surprised that her own voice, though it lacks the delicacy of the Fa’s, is loud and solid and strong. I still have it, she thinks. It’s about to be taken from me, but I still have it for now. But she can’t shake the claw-like cold of the jar at her neck. She forgets about water. 

She forgets about not fighting. Someone is reaching for her. Her mother has gone out. She doesn’t know where the boys are. She’s reading one of the big Braille books that the fancy lady from town has given her, and he’s threatening to take them away, if she doesn’t do what he wants. She’s screaming, and screaming, and then Daniel is there, and he hits the man with something, and the man doesn’t come back, even though Daniel is is a third his size and half his weight.

The Fa has stopped singing. Ariel’s throat is closed and perforated and raw.  
“It’s over,” she thinks, but it’s not, because she wasn’t thinking, she was speaking. Her vocal cords are vibrating, like they always have, but no, something has changed. Her voice is narrower, compressed, as if she were speaking into a funnel. It is fading, just like the Fa said it would. 

“Not quite,” the Fa says. “You’re not trying hard enough. You’re still fighting.”

“Wouldn’t you fight?” Ariel exclaims. “Isn’t this what dying feels like?”

“You’re not dying. It is your sister who is in danger. Not you. You are doing a very brave thing, by saving her life. Remember that.”

“I can’t,” Ariel says, and to her distant horror, there are tears in the back of her throat. “I can’t. Can’t do it. Not brave enough. It’s too much.”

The Fa says nothing for a moment. A few tendrils of her yellow hair have come loose from their bun, and she makes an abortive gesture to resecure them, but then seems to change her mind. “I could restrain you,” she finally says, slowly, as if she were a musician who knows she has hit the wrong notes. “It isn’t pleasant, but sometimes being immobilized can help people surrender a bit.”

“No!” Ariel cries out, and then immediately regrets it. Her new voice is not up to that sort of activity. “It’s not that,” she says, softly this time. “It’s the jar. It’s so …cold. Maybe if you were just using your hands, like you were before…”

“Strange,” The Fa muses. Her voice has grown raspy with tiredness. “I thought you would have preferred the jar. It’s less intimate. But I should be able to use my hands to capture the threads and then place them in the jar. I’ll just have to work quickly.”

“I don’t want to trouble you anymore than I already have,” Ariel says. She doesn’t know where this new compassion for the Fa has come from. 

“It’s no trouble. I think we both agree that we will try whatever it takes to bring this unpleasantness to an end as quickly as possible. And no wonder the jar felt cold. You’re shivering. Let me put another log on the fire and give you something warmer to wear.”

Ariel is about to protest, but then she realizes it is true: she is freezing, even though she is still wearing her coat.

“Here. Put this on.” Something soft brushes her shoulder blades, and when she does not move to take it, the Fa helps her into the garment as if she were a child. It is a cloak, and it seems to be an especially well-made one, because the fur sucks away the cold as if it were nothing. When she touches it, she notices that there are tiny round buttons, and there is a broach that must be in the shape of a flower, with a faceted stone where the stamen would be. When she takes her hands away, she is aware that the mix of musk and sweetness and mystery that she has come to associate with the Fa is all around her. This is probably an old cloak, something she doesn’t wear anymore. She wouldn’t possibly waste something new and lovely on one of her victims.

“Is that any better?” the Fa cuts into her thoughts. “The room should warm up now that the fire is stoked.”

“I am well, thank you,” Ariel says. “You can start.” 

The Fa’s hands are even warmer than they were before, almost as if they have absorbed part of the fire’s heat. Ariel begins to sing again, without prompting, and she tries to ignore the harshness of the thing that was issuing from her lips. She’s floating away from her body, which is the only thing she can do to stop fighting. And her surrender must be bringing about some success at least, because it becomes harder and harder to maintain any sort of note. Twice, the Fa’s fingers leave her neck, presumably to place the remnants of her voice in the jar, but it is not enough. Each second she thinks it is over, that she has nothing left, a mangled wreck of a whisper still comes out. She thinks of asking the Fa for a break, of finally taking her up on her long-ago offer of tea, but she knows that they have already dallied for too long. Minutes later, Ariel feels something warm and wet trickling down her neck.

“Stop. Stop,” the Fa says. “You’re bleeding. We can no longer continue. If your reaction to my magic worsens, I fear for your life.”

“But my sister.” Ariel rasps. Each word feels like a needle.  
The Fa sighs. “I have never made a potion with an incomplete sacrifice before, but I must try. I refuse to let both of you die.”  
“But this …thing you’ve left me with. It’s horrible. It would have been better if you’d taken all of it. This…hurts too much.”

Perhaps speaking will grow less painful with time. Unfortunately, I can’t give you a better answer than that. But I cannot use any more of my magic on you this night. If you truly desire to be rid of your voice entirely, I will try again tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to take you to the place where you will sleep, and then I’ll begin the brewing process.”

“But what if it doesn’t work? What if you didn’t take enough?”

“It will work,” the Fa says, with a confidence Ariel doesn’t fully believe she possesses. “And if it doesn’t, we’ll find another way to strengthen it. It’s best if I begin to brew as soon as possible.”

“What other way?” Ariel presses.

“I don’t yet know. Try not to speak so much; give your vocal cords some time to recover. And you look like you’re about to fall asleep in your chair. Luckily, I have a room prepared.”

The prospect of sleep sounds glorious, especially in a warm bed, and not in a barn, as she had feared. though she cannot help but think of the Fa, who must be even more exhausted than she is, cloistered in the kitchen, or wherever it is that she does her brewing, for who knows how long. The Fa could become careless. She could cut herself and contaminate the potion with her blood—is the Fa even capable of bleeding?—and then the potion would surely be ruined. Ariel stifles a yawn. “I could help if you like. I probably wouldn’t be very useful, but I know how to chop things.”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, it’s best that I work by myself. The potion I am brewing is a very delicate and capricious concoction. I’ve got your bag. You can take my arm, or you can follow my voice if you’d prefer.”

The Fa’s arm is thinner than Ariel had expected, and she is wearing some kind of gauzy tunic or dress. She leads Ariel through what must be the living and dining room, and then down a long hallway. 

“This is your room for tonight, “she says, opening a door on the left. “Straight in front of you is the bed. There are nightstands on either side, and at the foot of the bed is a dresser, which I doubt you’ll need. There are some fragile figurines on top of it, so do be careful not to jostle them. The bathroom is directly across the hall from your bedroom. My magic allows me to have running water, at least, so if you wish to bathe, you are welcome to do so. Is there anything else you need?”

The room is not large, but it is warm and smells of freshly washed linens. Ariel sits on the edge of the bed. The coverlet is so thick that it feels like a mattress in its own right. When she and Lindy were little, and they used to play princesses, this is the kind of bed they had conjured up.

“It’s lovely, thank you. I…” The rest of the sentence catches in Ariel’s throat, like partially chewed-up nuts, or the disgustingly chalky medicine the herbalist in the village once gave her. She’s coughing and spluttering, and then the Fa’s palm is at the center of her back, and even though the Fa is simply resting there, and she’s barely applying any force at all, the tightness in Ariel’s chest fades a fraction, and she is able to regain her breath.

“I’m so glad we stopped when we did,” the Fa Says. “Your throat must be very raw and irritated. If you would permit me, I may be able to do something that it will soothe it further, but it would involve me placing my lips against your skin. Of course, I will not touch you in such a way without your consent.”

A flash of pity, mingled with awe, temporarily jolts Ariel out of her haze of tiredness. For the third time that night, the Fa had spoken of her own supposed repulsiveness as if it were as mundane as the weather. 

 

“It’s all right,” Ariel says. “You can touch.”

But when the Fa’s lips brush the skin of her neck, all the stories of Fas sucking the lives out of their human victims come surging back into Ariel’s memory, and she flinches away involuntarily.

“I am not going to bite you, if that’s what you were thinking,” the Fa chides. “I’m a witch, not a vampire.”

Ariel smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Silly… superstitions again.”

“It’s quite all right. Just breathe deeply. Maybe that will help you stay calm.”

Breathing does help. This time, when the Fa’s lips touch her skin, Ariel does not flinch. The Fa keeps her mouth closed, and she keeps the contact brief and clinical. Ariel knows that this is decidedly not a kiss, but like almost everything the Fa does, it is skin-warm and intoxicating and painfully gentle. 

The Fa pulls back abruptly. “I still would be very careful not to strain your voice, but I hope I have eased your suffering a little.” 

“Thank you,” Ariel says. She only manages a rough whisper, but the pain has definitely dissipated a bit.

“Your welcome.” the Fa says. “I will leave you now.” 

Ariel can feel Armand’s moist breath on the back of her neck, and his muddy fingernails tangling in her hair. She’s screaming, mostly because she doesn’t know if this is a dream or reality, and the thought of being left alone in this strange room in this strange house suddenly becomes nothing short of terrifying.

She gives the Fa what she hopes is an entreating look. “Stay with me till I fall asleep?” 

The Fa takes a few steps towards the door. “I must not. As I mentioned, I must start brewing immediately. I know you are afraid, but you should not grow accustomed to seeking comfort from the one who has caused you pain. Remember that as merciful as I might seem, your voice has been taken by my hands, so forming any sort of attachment to me would be most unwise.”

“I’m not asking for very much, am I?”

“No. You are not. But the facts remain.”

“I have nightmares.” Ariel’s whisper is thick with shame. “When I was at home, I could yell out, and my brother, he would… he would help me, till I fell back asleep.” She prays that the Fa will not ask her to reveal the substance of the dreams.

“I didn’t know that. I have something that might help ease your worry a little. Let me go get it.”

The Fa is only gone for a moment. When she comes back, she presses something round and small and metal into Ariel’s hand. “This is a bell. If the night terrors should plague you, ring it and I will come.”

“But say if I can’t! Say if I forget where it is or I forget that it’s there, and they come, and I won’t be able to scream.” Ariel’s tears are flowing freely now. Her anger has done nothing to raise the volume of her voice. If anything, it is weakening her words.

The Fa’s tone is as calm and even as ever. “You may despise me for saying this, which is all right, but you must learn to adapt to this new loss, as you have done with your blindness. You must make adjustments. I would not be doing you any favors if I coddled you, and I was being truthful when I told you I must begin the brewing. The effects of the sacrifice are most potent in the first hour after it is taken.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Ariel’s voice might be paper-thin, but she is proud of its iciness. “You don’t understand what it feels like to lose something you love. I’m sure you’ve never once been asked to give up anything in your entire life.”

“I understand more than you know, Ariel of the Barren Woods,” the Fa says, before quietly shutting the door behind her. 

If Ariel had been sighted, she perhaps would have noticed that the Fa is missing the pinky finger on her left hand. And if Ariel had been told that the Fa was only twenty-four, she might have noticed that the Fa’s face, though still quite beautiful, is unusually lined for one so young. But Ariel was not aware of these things, and so the unaccustomed weight of her rage sits on her stomach all might long.

The next morning, she awakens to the familiar dream-memories, of Armand’s fishy breath and grabbing hands, but it is as if someone has placed a curtain over them; the ache is dull and hard to locate. Her mouth is dry, and her throat still hurts. Automatically, she finds herself reaching to her left, where she discovers a bedside table with a tall glass of water. When she brings it to her lips, the water gives off a hint of sweetness, almost exactly like the way she imagines honey would taste. And with the sweetness comes another memory, blurry and grainy and undefined, of calling the same name over and over (Angela? Annemarie? No, neither of those are right), of gentle fingers and a clean cloth, of something thick and sticky and delicious being poured down her throat, of wisps of a lullaby, and then, finally, the refuge of sleep.


End file.
